On my last solo trip from New York to Sydney, I drew the short straw and was allocated the “seat of doom" – the middle seat of the middle aisle (Tip #1: avoid “seat of doom").

Seated to my left was a well-dressed but smug, preppy looking stud returning from an internship with a New York merchant bank (no doubt since gone bust) and to my right a frail, Kiwi septuagenarian, smelling of camphor and with a bad head cold. To her right a loud Texan complete with Stetson and cowboy boots.

I should have heard alarm bells when the Kiwi requested every piece of spare food on my tray, stating that she had a “long trup beck to Wullington". I happily handed her my rubber chicken.

After polishing off every morsel, washed down with two bottles of red, she (ironically) turned a little green and without warning projectile vomited à la Linda Blair in The Exorcist. A sea of red wine and carrot pieces.

I went straight to my handbag to retrieve packets of Wet Ones (Tip #2: Always travel with them) and frantically tried to wipe her down. The Texan wisely fled the scene. The stud announced that if he smells vomit he vomits. I asked myself whether this applied to all his bodily functions, but told him to pull up his big girl panties.After the steward arrived with the oxygen tank (and fought off the stud), the Kiwi inhaled. I assessed the damage and asked the steward for some “business class pajamas" for the Kiwi. As she changed clothes, the steward changed the seat like a piece of Lego. The Kiwi continued to inhale from the tank and just when we thought it was safe to relax, it all happened again, this time over me, and we hadn’t even reached LA (tip #3: Always have a change of clothes).

Best thing about travelling

The best thing about travelling is getting lost with no time constraints – oh and afternoon siestas with my husband.